


Ode to 11010201, The Miscellaneous Archive

by jacksgreysays (jacksgreyson)



Series: Original Work [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Dragons, Gen, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Magic, Magic-Users, Magical Realism, POV Outsider, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 20,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksgreyson/pseuds/jacksgreysays
Summary: (The collection of loosely related snippets and ficlets set in the Ode to 11010201 'verse. Originally posted on livejournal and tumblr.)





	1. Chapter One Cross Post

She does not get the letter in her mailbox. What is this, the fifties? The only thing people get in their mailboxes nowadays are bills and coupons for grocery stores. No, she gets the letter on top of the very short paperwork stack her PA is allowing her take home during her mandatory three week vacation. It’s a sad anemic pile, it’ll hardly last one day in her enforced boredom. It goes in her bag anyway.

When she asks what it is, why is he doing this to her, can’t he just let her spend her vacation in the office and just tell HR she didn’t, he makes emphatic eyebrow movements but doesn’t actually say anything in response. Patrick had tried planning an itinerary for her. Ha! As if trips to the museum or spa days or hiking of all things organized in a similar fashion to her normal work schedule could lull her into accepting via familiarity.

Striding gracefully, not marching petulantly no matter what Fred the receptionist will later report back to Patrick, she heads to the elevators and makes her way out of the building for the last time this month. Flying Spaghetti Monster, she won’t be back until August! That’s an entirely different page on the calendar! She can’t do this, she can’t do this, she can’t–and Ann, head of security, is standing just on the opposite side of the glass doors with a look that somehow manages to be simultaneously stern and amused. So she completes the turn, a full three-sixty instead of a one-eighty back inside, as if she had planned that entirely. A playful twirl, people do that all the time, right? Patrick will still probably hear of it.

The journey back to her apartment is off-putting, mostly since the sun is still up, and she has likely convinced at least three passersby of her impending psychotic break. The experience is so harrowing and exhausting she immediately faceplants into bed. No, that’s a lie. She does in fact take the time and effort to change into pajamas and brush her teeth clean. Then she closes the blinds, because Lost Island of Atlantis, the sun is still up. Then she faceplants into bed.

She doesn’t think about the paperwork, and by proxy the letter, until a full sixteen hours later. Fifteen of those were spent unconscious. She will never tell this to Patrick, but he may still find out anyway.

~

After polishing off the scant amount of food in her apartment, she sits on her mostly unused couch in a daze of confused ennui. She has no idea what to do now. She’s debating with herself on whether she should do all of the paperwork now, leaving her with a gaping hole of unproductivity to look forward to, or to save it for the end as a sort of constructive reward for making it through, or even to create a daily ration of work, though there’s a part of her cringing at the inefficiency of only doing two and a third pages per day. This is sad. That her life has been reduced to this is pathetic.

She’s about to call Patrick and complain, because at least that’s something to do, when she spots the letter. And then stares. It is weirding her out. The addresses are handwritten for one, badly so and to such an extent that they’re nearly unreadable. She just barely knows it’s intended for her, and only because her name is unique enough that legible or not she will always be able to recognize it. How the post office was able to deliver it to her, she has no idea. Also, why would Patrick even let this through? There’s no way this is for business, and anyone she knows beyond that would never send her a letter. It’s the age of email and text messages and social networking, who is sending her a letter? Not even her mother, quirky and elderly woman that she is, sends anything through the post.

The return address does, if she’s reading this correctly, come from California. Which doesn’t narrow it down much. Given she was born, grew up, and went to school–kindergarten to master’s–in California, this could mean anyone she’s met in the first twenty five years of her life. Also, most of her family lives in California. And her family is huge; on her maternal grandfather’s side alone she has so many relatives that they keep track of each other through numbers–she’s 110103 and proud of it.

She opens it. Because there’s only so much apprehension one can have about an envelope before finally biting the bullet and opening it. There is a single page; the writing is the same though more carefully penned, she doesn’t want to gouge her eyes out. She skims it first, then stops halfway through, goes back to the beginning and reads slowly, focused. When she gets to the end, she reads it again. She tries to read it one more time and gives up. She grabs her phone, wallet, shoes, and coat, then walks to the grocery store down the block. Yes, still in her pajamas.

She waits until she’s inside the store before she calls Patrick, because that way she’ll be forced to keep her voice at a reasonable level or otherwise suffer the awkward and annoying glares of employees and other customers. She grabs a cart still, since she does actually need to get food, and goes to the very last aisle. She intends to work her way backward, until either her cart is full or she gets to the first aisle; she intends to keep her rant at Patrick civil.

It just gets to the second ring when he picks up. “I thought you would at least get to tomorrow before you called,” she knows he means for it to be teasing, but right now all she can hear is condescension.

She doesn’t angrily hiss ‘how could you’ because that is stupidly cliche and also wouldn’t make much sense within this context. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

But he’s always been very good about understanding her without context, anyway. “I would never open a letter from your long lost nephew without asking you first, that’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re practically paid to invade my privacy,” She’s already at the cereal aisle. She wants to get Lucky Charms, but her doctor’s been on her about hereditary diabetes and proper nutrition and all sorts of nonsense she doesn’t really understand but feels obligated to obey anyway.

“You should get Special K, instead. The strawberries ought to make it up to you,” She has no idea how he does it, but it figures he’d be in cahoots with her doctor and her grocers. Or they’re in cahoots with him. How do cahoots work? “I booked you a flight home, it’s on Monday. Helena misses you.”

Her mother too? “Don’t bring my mother into this, we have weekly phone calls. Stop trying to guilt me into going. It won’t work.” It will totally work. She cracks easily, like overly bleached eggs at the bottom of the stack, placed carelessly into the cooler by a bleary eyed teenager. On the topic of eggs, she grabs a carton of twelve; it’s one of the few things she can actually cook. “Anyway, you know how much I hate going home.”

She loves her family. That’s probably a bad way to start, because leading with that just begs for it to be contradicted and that shouldn’t have to be stated but she will anyway. She loves her family. She just hates being at home. It’s why she’s moved to the entire other side of the country, on the coast of an entirely different ocean, three entire time zones away. She talks to Mama at least once a week, and not just a perfunctory ten minute minimum, but full hours of updates and emotions and inside jokes. It’s much easier with her sisters, they have an email group and spam each other’s profile pages daily with pictures and random comments.

Well. Not all of her sisters. Not the one who has apparently given birth within the past seventeen years since they’ve lost contact. It’s part of the reason why she doesn’t go home that often, though she has to admit that she never really liked it even before then. It used to be the four of them; the few times they weren’t a united group, they had the tendency to split into pairs in a variety of combinations. The gaping hole in their quartet is less obvious if she stays away.

Ugh.

“Grunting, excellent. Your eloquence is impressive as always,” There was once a time when her PA was not so snarky, did not know her enough to manipulate herself and the world for her benefit. She doesn’t remember that time. She wouldn’t choose to go back, his concern is as comforting as it is irritating.

“I’ll only have tomorrow to pack,” The well lit rows of fruity yogurt cups are tempting; but she probably shouldn’t buy any dairy products right now, since she’s apparently agreed to go home for vacation.

“I’ve also booked you another flight for Friday.” In that case, the yogurt will still be good when she gets back, “It’s to Belleview. Well, the nearest airport, it’s not large enough to have it’s own.”

Belleview? What’s Belleview? Why–oh.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” He sounds understanding and sincere, which means that he will be horribly disappointed in her if she doesn’t. She ends up with salads for lunch when Patrick’s disappointed. They don’t even have chicken in them.

She sighs. She cracks so, so easily, “They better be window seats,” She puts the yogurt back.

“Of course,” He responds immediately, as if he actually were a subservient PA, but she can hear the laughter in his voice, pleased as punch.

The items in her cart aren’t so quickly perishable. They’ll keep until she gets back, and there’s no need for this shopping trip to go to waste. She heads to the check out line, “I’ll probably end up calling you again at some point during this… vacation.”

The reply is a quick and noncomittal, “I’ll see you in August,” and Patrick hangs up. She stares at her phone in betrayal.

Sean, her usual cashier, absently says, “He worries about your health. You need to relax. And eat healthier, of course.” She stares at him in betrayal, too, as he sets aside her chocolate bars without scanning them in. Cahoots!

~

She’s not a nervous flier. She’s been hopping on and off airplanes since before she was a teenager and her parents separated and her father moved to Canada while still demanding her presence during summer breaks. Flights are not bad at all. Her voice is high enough and her face round enough that flight attendants still sometimes assume she’s a minor; they ask if this is her first flight alone, which is annoying, but they give her extra snacks so it all balances out. The point is: she’s not a nervous flier but she just happens to be nervous while she’s on a plane. The well-meaning, but misinformed flight attendants are looking at her worriedly. Her fellow passengers are obviously annoyed, which in turn makes the flight attendants annoyed at them. She makes an excellent helpless puppy face.

A nephew. Abominable Snowman, an actual nephew. Not just the son of a distant cousin. But a son of one of her sisters. Paul Bunyan’s Blue Ox, that’s weird.

She has nieces. Her eldest sister Daphne has two daughters, Tiffany and Audrey. When she flew home during her first week of vacation, they had also been visiting her mother. It helped fill what she had feared would be tense secret keeping–because she sure as pecan pie wasn’t going to spring a long-lost grandson on Mama. The girls are both bright and noisy. It works since they’re still in their cute years. She shudders to think what they’ll be like as teenagers. She speaks from experience; all of her sisters were unabashed extroverts and there was always drama happening. Always. Well, until her most dramatic sister pulled the most dramatic act in their shared history; running away and burning bridges willy nilly.

To be honest, she’s not all that clear on the details; she had been studying abroad that year. It was as if to her everything was normal, then she went to school, came back, and suddenly only had two sisters instead of three–everyone obsessively avoiding the topic of her missing sister. She’s only ever heard bits and pieces of the tale, from her mother and sisters when they’re tired or drunk or forgetful, and even then she thinks she only has one side. She had thought the other side would forever be lost to her.

She wonders if her mysterious nephew knows the other side of the story. What this version must contain for him to put effort into finding her. Or perhaps finding her was never an issue–perhaps her sister had always kept him informed of his family. Their family. She should be wondering why now. Why has he contacted her now?

~

The plane lands in Cadmium City. It’s not a big city, but it’s decent-sized and she appreciates the design–the roads are neatly arranged and the buildings uphold a sense of efficient yet tasteful aesthetics. The airport is similarly well organized and it takes her no time at all to find the loading bay for taxis. It takes her much longer to find a taxi driver willing to bring her to Belleview, but she does eventually. Mostly because Emma, the driver of the hilariously lime-green taxi (why didn’t she choose this one first?), lives in Belleview and is going home for the day.

“We don’t get many visitors. The town is self-sufficient. Me having a job as a cab driver in Cadmium is practically rebellion; even then I would never move there, Belleview is home. It’s not terribly exciting, but home shouldn’t really be. Why are you going there anyway? It’s not much of a vacation spot, but then again, I can’t really imagine anyone going there for business purposes,” Emma is friendly and talkative, sincere in a way that makes her want to reciprocate.

“Family…” Is it union since the ’re’ part of ‘reunion’ is invalid?

“I know how you feel–family, not exactly business but definitely more effort than leisure. Do you know where you’re staying for the night?”

“I… huh,” She must be really jet-lagged, “Did I not specify where I was going beyond Belleview?”

“No, but it’s a long enough drive that I figure you’d have enough time to say. Are you not staying with your family?”

“No,”

“No?” Emma prompts, because that’s how conversation works.

She can’t expect a total stranger to understand her tone, the nuances that say she hasn’t seen her sister in seventeen years, that she doesn’t know what kind of welcome she’ll get, that she wasn’t even really invited, that her PA took a vague 'hope to meet you’ from her surprise long-lost nephew as an excuse to book her a plane ticket to some tiny town apparently in the middle of nowhere.

“I haven’t seen my sister in a long time, this is sort of a surprise visit. I wouldn’t want to impose.” Close enough.

“Maybe I know your family; the town isn’t that large.”

“They’re the Szymanski family?” The name fits oddly in her mouth, she’s unsure how to pronounce it. She’s trying out the softer 'sh’ sound, like her pre-journey research says, but perhaps she’s still mangling it.

“Your sister’s a Szymanski?” Emma pronounces the z, sharper and further from the original Polish, “I only know of one Szymanski family, but it’s just… well, maybe it’s a different one.”

It doesn’t seem like it’d be that common a name, but maybe Belleview has a lot of Polish descendants. Regardless, she has a somewhat more pressing matter to attend to, “Can you recommend a hotel in Belleview?”

Emma bursts out in laughter, through the rearview mirror she can see it’s with crinkled eyes squinting almost closed. It’s not mean. “Sorry,” she apologizes anyway, “it’s just that, if I hadn’t decided to be a cab driver in Cadmium, I’d have gone into the family business.”

She waits for the punch line.

“We own the only inn in Belleview.”

~

She waits until the next day before navigating her way to the Szymanski household; she’s fairly good with maps but she couldn’t have done that without getting lost before a good, solid rest. Her sleep hadn’t been quite as lengthy as her first day of vacation, but long enough to worry Emma’s kindly mother. The bonus home-cooked brunch was delicious, but she could have done without the matronly patronizing… matronizing?

The return address on the envelope leads her to a cul-de-sac near the edge of the woods–because apparently Belleview is surrounded by forests and hills and her life is steadily becoming more like a fairy tale or soap opera each day. Regardless, the houses along the road are charming two-story structures, identical in their layout, no doubt, but each having individual personalities through unique paint jobs and competitively distinct gardens. One, with a utilitarian grass-and-tree only front yard, has the most disastrous looking car she has ever seen parked in the driveway. It’s an old SUV, colored an unfortunate brownish yellow, with more dents and scratches than a vehicle not in a warzone should have.

Yup, matching the number of the house with the number on the envelope, that’s the house. Figures, she thinks to herself as she heads towards the door and thus the SUV, her sister’s taste and relationship with cars had always been awful. There are windchimes on either side of the porch steps, intricately carved wood ornaments hanging alongside metal bells; she has a similar one in her apartment, reminiscent of the ones they grew up with as children. Besides that, she doesn’t really sense anything else that reminds her of Iris. But seventeen years can change a person.

She rings the doorbell and waits. She doesn’t give herself time to hesitate or backtrack. What happens next is out of her hands.

And really confusing.

The door is opened by a teenager holding a hockey stick who immediately drops a length of rope between them, “I don’t know how you did it, but you definitely can’t get past this. Also, what is your plan, even? Coming alone in the middle of the day. Sure it’s just me right now, but it’s not like the others aren’t capable of getting here in an instant. Is this some kind of psychological power play happening? Go after the weakest link? Trying to offer me something so I’ll betray my friends? Yeah, well, not gonna happen, so you can just turn around right now and go. I may not be a canine, but I am loyal.”

What?

“That’s… good? Loyalty is good.” Seriously, what does she say to this? “Sorry, I was looking for the Szymanski residence; is this not the right address?” She holds out the envelope, it’s creased where she’s kept it folded in her pocket and it wasn’t exactly pristine when she first got it, but the address is still visible.

He doesn’t take it from her, but he seems to recognize it. “No, that’s here. That’s me, us, I mean, the Szymanskis. Are you…” He alternates between looking at the envelope in her hand and her face, getting less angry and skeptical, more floundering and confused.

Ok, they’re on the same emotional page at least, “I’m R Chacone. Well, Arke Rayniero Michalis Chacone– my full name is terrible, I have no idea why my parents named me that. So I usually just go by R…” She clarifies, “I’m your aunt?”

“Oh,”

Good, progress is–

He shuts the door, then opens it again slightly, the rope snaking along the ground as he drags it inside with his foot, then shuts it again.

Never mind then.

She’s not really sure what to do now. Why didn’t she just call ahead? Or write a letter back instead of springing up all uninvited and awkward. Family interaction is difficult. Even more so when you don’t have a routine to fall back on.

Poking one of the windchimes, she sets off a tiny chorus of bells. Should she ask to see Iris? But the letter was from him and she’s pretty sure curious nephew would react better than estranged sister, so extrapolating from his reaction… Maybe leave a message?

The other windchime has darker stained wood and more rectangular bells, overall a deeper sound. This was a terrible idea. She should just leave. She tried, her efforts fell flat, it’s not on her anymore.

The door opens for a third time.

~

They’re seated across the kitchen table, set with a glass for each of them, water for her, milk for him. She lets her eyes wander around, categorizing what is, isn’t, and could be hints of her sister. The wallpaper could have been from previous owners, but the whale shaped cookie jar is obvious. She’s not sure if the bone structure of his face is different from teenaged Iris because he’s male or because he takes after his father, but his ears have that slight Chacone tapering that she sees in the mirror and in family photos.

It’s been six minutes. He is pointedly staring at his own hands, as if mesmerized by the tiny landscape of knuckles and veins. She can’t tell which is more nerve-wracking, the hum of the refrigerator or the arrhythmic pattern of their breathing.

“Sorry, this is–” Frustrating, awkward, disastrous. Her fingers can’t stop tapping against the glass, “I should have–” Written instead? Called ahead? Never come? She makes to stand, but her legs are too far under the table; the back of her knee jostles the chair, the grating sound of wood against wood.

“Why are you even here?” He’s scrubbing his hands across his face, eyes squeezed shut. He has constellations of moles and freckles across his skin, just like his mother and his grandmother, entire galaxies it seems.

“You wrote to me.”

“And that’s it? It’s as simple as that?”

And she had vacation time coming up. And she needed something to do. And her PA booked her flight for her. And she’s curious. And…

“You’re family.” Family is important. Family may be frustrating and awkward and disastrous, but it’s important.

His groan is muffled, head bowed into his hands.

They don’t know each other well enough that she can reach out and touch him, drag his hands out of the way so that he’d look at her. She… apple pie à la mode, she doesn’t even know what his real name is, just that he prefers to be called Zim, “We may not have the same name, and I know I’ve missed out on basically your entire life because I didn’t even know you existed until last week, but you found me. You found me and reached out to me and you’re family. So I’m here. Because you wrote to me.” She repeats, “And you’re family.”

The refrigerator buzz is back. It’s practically disdainful. Judgemental.

She drinks her water. There are copper molds in the shape of fish hanging on the wall above the sink. Mama has roosters and suns, Daphne has grapes. Zoe’s home address is technically Mama’s, but only because her job requires her to travel so much that having her own place is impractical; perhaps the suns are actually Zoe’s. There is nothing in her own apartment besides what is necessary; she’s pretty sure all of her walls are white.

He looks up at her with a huff, it could have been a chuckle if it were not so forced, “We do share names, you know.”

“What?”

“I go by Zim for the same reason you go by R,” They share a timidly commiserating smile; she knows where this is going and there’s a blooming warmth in her chest at this tiny bond. “I always wondered why Mom would give me a name so easy to make fun of. I also wondered why Dad agreed because, you know, aren’t second opinions supposed to prevent bad ideas? But I guess she named me after you. Well, not completely, my first name isn’t Arke but we have the same second name, and third name, too. Why do you have a guy’s name–Rayniero, that’s not a normal girl’s name. Not that it’s a normal name to begin with, but it doesn’t fit gender norms. I mean, not that I’m saying you have to, conformity is evil and all that; but mostly I’m just wondering what your parents, er, my grandparents were thinking? Because that decision seriously trickled down. Consequences, they exist.”

Her grin is shaky now, because she’s trying not to laugh–not at his rambling, because it’s nervous and heartfelt and it doesn’t remind her at all of Iris or herself or anyone else; it seems uniquely Zim, and she’s glad that he’s not just an amalgamation of familiar traits. She’s relieved and she feels lighter than when she woke up this morning, than when she was on the plane, than when she read that letter. She’s so happy and she wants to laugh because it’s either that or hug him and that’s not an option either. They’re not at that level yet, but they could be. They’re both willing to work at it, and that’s fantastic.


	2. (2015-06-08) ficlet

They’re in the middle of a video call, R teaching him some quick and easy weaving spells that can be done with three elastics, when he finally breaks.

“I got accepted into Berkeley!” He blurts out, fingers tangled in the silly bandz bracelets he’s been trying and failing to turn into a temporary protection spell. The one R is showing him as an example can withstand a car collision, his would be lucky to ward off a very determined paper airplane.

Surprised by the non sequitur, R pauses mid explanation, and pulls apart her own protection spell made out of hair ties. Better not to leave any magic, even a weaving as minor and benign as that, active without supervision.

“Congratulations,” R says honestly, unable to pick up his signals of distress through the video call, “That was your number one, right?”

“Yeah!” He responds, bright and happy at his own success, before remembering that, no, this is not a good thing, “I mean… yeah,” He repeats, a little more solemn, “I didn’t really think I’d get in. And I’m glad I got accepted, you know? But I know we talked about me moving to New York; and I’d be happy to go to NYU, too. I just–”

“Oh, darling,” She sighs, a mix of fond and sad.

It hits him, suddenly, thrusts him a decade into the past. It reminds him viscerally of his mom, that same inflection when he told her he was going to study harder in school so that he could be a doctor and make her feel better and she could come home soon because it was his birthday next month and he was going to be eight years old.

But it’s not identical, not really. The same way R isn’t his mom, no matter the similarity between sisters.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to go to a different school just because I live over here. You shouldn’t sacrifice what you want for me,” R says, soft expression at odds with firm words.

“It’s not a sacrifice. And I do want to live with you in New York. It’d be a good experience, you know? Live in a different state, and all. Not be less than an hour away from my childhood home,” He protests, reflexively playing devil’s advocate.

She raises an eyebrow–which is something he’s been trying to learn from her, but is somehow more difficult than the magic lessons–and lets the silence sit. Then lets it sprawl rudely with its feet up on the coffee table and everything.

“NYU is my second choice,” he tacks on feebly, unsure if its an argument for or against whichever side he wants.

“And if you really want to attend NYU instead of Berkeley, then I will be here to help you with everything. That option is open to you, but don’t just because of me. I’ll be available to you regardless of if you stay in California or come to New York. Okay?” She stares steadily at him, an almost physical sensation despite the thousands of miles and electronic medium.

“Okay,” He parrots back, relieved. He doesn’t know why he was so worried.

“Now bring your hands closer to the camera, so I can tell you what you’re doing wrong with the weaving.”


	3. (2015-06-10) ficlet

They are in the middle of painting each others’ nails, one of the lessons that can’t really be done other than in person, when R decides to randomly talk about her past. It’s not a bad thing–because he likes hearing about her past, whether or not it includes stories about his mom–it’s just kind of weird. Usually he’s the one that throws their lessons of the rails.

“When I first moved to New York, I didn’t know I had magic,” she begins, words flowing in time with the smooth strokes of the nail brush, “I had never really lived outside of California before–study abroad year, notwithstanding–and there were so many things I needed to adjust to.”

She finishes the first coat on his right hand. The runes, painstaking drawn with an ultra fine point marker, are still visible through the layer of colors. He’s a little glad that today is Friday and that he doesn’t have school tomorrow. He’s not embarrassed at wearing nail polish to school, he’s known for making odd fashion choices, but he appreciates having the weekend to become accustomed to it.

“And at that time, my magic… our magic, still hadn’t been fully triggered. So what I had back then wasn’t really magic so much as a potential for magic.”

He nods in agreement, but not quite understanding. His magic… their magic… had blind-sided him. One second he was human, then the next he was more.

“When I first applied to my job, well, to be honest… they weren’t really interested in me. I got an interview, of course which was surprising to me, but during the interview itself, well. I could tell Patrick wasn’t very impressed.”

“Wait… Patrick… your PA? He was the one interviewing you? How does that make sense?” He interrupts, recognizing the name, but confused at the rest.

“The company was still small then–I guess technically it could have been called a start up–and the only ones working there at the time were the core clan members.”

“So… Patrick, Ann, Vi, Lucas and Bromley?” He guesses, trying to recall the names of some of R’s coworkers.

“Not Bromley, he was only recently turned. But you got most of them. Fred, too.”

“But Fred–” Fred was the receptionist, so his confusion perhaps makes sense.

“Yeah, I was surprised too. But he invested about forty percent of the initial start up capital, so…” She shrugged, careful to hold the nail brush away from his hand perched steadily on her knee so as not to smear the polish.

“Oh. Okay, go on.”

“What was I saying? … Oh right, Patrick wasn’t really impressed during the interview. Apparently the entire time he had been sending out flares of enthrallment and he had been expecting me to confront him about it with a spell or something,”

“But?”

“But I just thought I was getting nervous about actually having a job interview, my first thought wasn’t exactly ‘oh vampire psychic abilities’–”

He laughs, and she chuckles in return.

“–It was at the end, when we shook hands, that he finally… well.” She pauses, blows gently on his fingernails, before gesturing for his other hand, “Come on, and don’t fidget with that one,” she directs, before continuing.

“Apparently I zapped him with enough magic that he didn’t need to feed at all for the following month. After that, he was pretty keen to get me signed into the company even if I was a recent graduate.”

“So what you’re saying is that being magic means I don’t have to worry about any other life skills because I’ll be hired by a group of supernatural creatures to be their living battery?”

She sighs, shakes her head, and chuckles ruefully, “That does sound like the moral of the story, doesn’t it?”

“I was just kidding,” He says in a rush, worried at insulting her, “I mean, I don’t know what your actual job is but I’m sure it’s great. I know Patrick actually likes you as, you know, a person and not just an energy source.” And also because if that really is the point of her story then that bodes poorly for his own relationship with his pack of werewolf friends.

She grins widely at that, “Do you know why the clan calls me 'crow’?”

“Uh… because it’s cool sounding?” He responds, unsure.

“My official job title is C-R-O. Chief Resource Officer. At other companies it would be Chief Research Officer–usually whoever’s in charge of R&D–which for us is Lucas. But his actual title is Head of R&D…

It’s a bit of a joke, really. Because I’m head of HR. Except most of the company then wasn’t human… still isn’t, really. So instead of Human Resources, I’m just in charge of Resources.”

“… Okay?”

“When I first got to New York, none of the magical covens approached me. To them, because all of my magic was contained, they thought I was weak, thought I was insignificant. I didn’t even know about the supernatural world, didn’t know what kind of insult I was being paid every day I walked down the street, passed by a witch and they did nothing. But now? I’m partially in charge of the largest vampire clan in the country, the largest collective of supernatural and magical beings.”

“… So, is this about how things get better in the future?”

“Not really. It’s just a story. Things don’t always have to make sense. There are a few witches working for the company that look at me like I have all the answers, as if me being so high up in the company means that I’ve gone beyond the need for a coven. The truth of the matter is, I know less about magic than they do…

If your magic… our magic… had never been triggered, all I’d have is magic potential. It’s why a lot of what I’m teaching you is internal or self-sustaining, because I didn’t have the chance to learn any 'real magic’. And now that suddenly our magic is active, I have more than enough power to compete with any of the New York covens, much less a single witch.

I was never taught limits because as far as the covens were concerned, I was inherently limited. I wasn’t worth teaching, so I never learned that some things shouldn’t be done… couldn’t be done.

It’s why we can do the impossible.”


	4. (2015-06-14) ficlet

“Ooh,” R coos, then lifts her teacup up to her face, breathes in the scent and then takes a sip. “Ooh,” she repeats, though this time it’s unrelated to her beverage, “Keep going, darling,” she prompts, perfectly content to listen to her nephew rant about school and teachers and girls and boys and all sorts of teenage drama. A little eager, in fact.

He flushes a little, both pleased and embarrassed at being called darling. It’s not quite the same–his mom preferred sweetie and that was before he got to kindergarten–but the affection is still palpable. He sets the feeling aside, though, and continues his diatribe.

“Who even does that? What kind of person sets another person’s textbooks on fire? What the hell–not only is that a massive fire safety violation, but I mean… the textbooks aren’t even really mine! They’re the schools! And it’s not like I’m the one whose going to get in trouble for it! There were witnesses and one of them was even the chemistry teacher so I don’t even have to worry about being a narc. But seriously, I don’t. What?” Today had been really weird–horrifying, yes, but mostly just weird.

He still had ashes on his clothes from his poor, incinerated textbooks; could smell the smoke lingering around him. Time zones being what they were, he hadn’t wanted to shower and change clothes and postpone their video call too late in the day for R. Though, at least he had had the opportunity to shower after hockey practice.

“Considering you filled his locker full of cheese yesterday, I suppose we should be thankful he didn’t try to set you on fire…” She responds, the epitome of calm–which, while preferable to his dad’s absolute freak out, is a little on the apathetic side.

“Yeah, but before that he kept tripping me in the cafeteria! You know how prone I am to falling by myself, adding in deliberate tripping is just overkill. I ended up wearing my lunches for two weeks instead of eating them,”

“… though I doubt you would have been hurt if he had tried,” R murmurs, pointedly tapping her left middle finger against her tea cup. The fingernail is painted red, the rune for fire hidden underneath. On him, his pinky is the one designated for fire, having a greater affinity and thus needing less help.

“What, really?” He asks, completely derailed from his rage, “Our magic makes us immune to getting set on fire?”

“Well, it’s not exactly like I’ve been jumping into bonfires to test it out,” R disclaims, “but I did walk away when someone tased me a few months ago. I was taken off guard, so I didn’t use any of my mini-weavings, so it couldn’t have been that.”

“Holy shit!” He yelps, nearly jolting off his desk chair, “Someone tried to tase you?” He peers at his screen skeptically, as if she were hiding fresh injuries underneath her pajamas, “Are you okay?”

“It was a while ago,” She waves away, “And the point is, we’re a lot more powerful than the average human. Steer clear of this guy, for sure, and that means stop antagonizing him with things like lockers full of cheese.”

“Yeah, well, since he was caught red-handed destroying school property he’s been suspended with possible expulsion if he pulls anything like that again,” He concludes, expelling his righteous anger at being avenged.

“And you’ll steer clear of him?” R prompts, eyebrow raised. If there was no explicit agreement, then she knows he won’t do it.

“Yeah, I’ll steer clear. The guy’s a total creep, though, so I can’t be held accountable if he comes to me,” He grumbles.

“And if that’s the case, then you have my blessing to do whatever’s necessary to defend yourself.”


	5. (2015-06-16) ficlet

“For some reason, whoa,” he begins, climbing on top of a fallen log and walking along it in a wobbly fashion.

Feet firmly on the leaf strewn ground next to him, R glances at him warily, but lets him do so.

“For some reason,” he repeats, arms outstretched for balance, “I don’t really feel protective of you.”

R hums in part acknowledgement, part agreement, but says nothing in response.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love you, and I also like you, which–the latter is not always guaranteed with the former, let me tell you–and I’m really glad that you’re in my life and stuff. But. I dunno, I just don’t really… I mean. I don’t get worried about you? Like, my best friend? He’s such a dweeb and I’m always worried he’s going to do something dumb and get himself hurt. And my dad, well, his job’s not exactly a cushioned, luxurious office job y'know? Don’t even get me started on all the supernatural bullshit that can happen to either of them. But it’s like, with you? I don’t really care? Like, if either of them said they had been attacked I’d be freaking out, but with you I’m just. It’s not that I wouldn’t care, I just would ask what you did and then that’s it.”

“Well, I do know how to protect myself,” R replies, bemused.

“Yeah, no, but. I know that, but I don’t think that’s it? Like, if my dad were to tell me he almost got mugged but then he fended off the mugger I’d still be freaking out. But if you were to tell me that I’d probably just ask what spell you used and if you could teach that to me, you know?”

“Hm, yes. I see…”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way…”

“No, of course not. I understand what you’re trying to say,” she reassures, pausing by the end of the log while he jumps off, “I suppose I feel much the same way.”

“What, really? But you’re teaching me all sorts of stuff.”

“It’s because… hm… well, you’re rather on the zealous side when it comes to your dad and your friend, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, unsure of the direction the conversation is going.

“Let’s hope it never comes to it, but I get the feeling that you’d probably die for them if it meant keeping them safe.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, this time far more firmly. Because he totally would.

“But you wouldn’t do the same for me,” R states confidently as they continue their walk.

“Uh… no? I don’t… I don’t know why.”

“It’s because if you died, I’d die. I sincerely doubt our magic would let only one of us die. To some extent, us sharing magic makes us the same person. You don’t feel protective over your hands. Obviously when you injure a hand, you want it to heal, but once it’s healed that doesn’t mean you stop using it.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. That makes sense. But what about you teaching me?”

“Well, you have to train your hands in order to maximize their potential. I’m not naturally ambidextrous, you know.”

“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

“Hm, both, actually.”


	6. Avengers crossover, (2015-07-04) ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crossover with the Avengers movie

He’s in the middle of chemistry when he feels a sudden drain in his energy. He begins to droop immediately, face smashing alarmingly close to the lab equipment on the table. He can’t help the pained yell that follows.

“What is going on here?” Mr Lui asks, torn between concern and confusion.

“I don’t know,” he answers through gritted teeth, a strangely empty sensation of pulling going down his spine. He’s never felt anything like this before, doesn’t have a frame of reference for what it might be.

Except… maybe he does know.

“New York,” he tries to mumble, but his face in general does not seem to want to cooperate with him. Not that such a statement would have explained much.

Luckily, it doesn’t have to.

“Teachers,” says Principle Henao, voice somehow carefully mild over the school’s PA system, “I apologize for the interruption, but please turn on your televisions at this time.” She repeats the sentence again, no offers of explanation, no opportunities for disobedience. Homeroom period, when announcements are made and TVs play Channel One–the high school equivalent of a news station–had just ended ten minutes ago. The request, then, is both strange and unproblematic.

What the TVs are showing, is strange and problematic.

All the TVs in school are connected to a central monitor in the main office. Usually set to play only Channel One and the occasional video announcement, now it must be set to an actual news channel.

On the screen a bright red banner reading BREAKING NEWS is at the top; below it footage of what looks to be… some kind of war zone. Rubble and explosions and fast paced everything, details too shaky and indistinct to make out. But the captions say that it’s New York; Manhattan, to be specific.

His aunt works in Manhattan.

His lab partner, the only one to have heard his attempt to speak earlier looks at him sharply. His other classmates stare entranced at the screen. Even Mr Lui, torn between concern at a possibly unwell student and the sheer horrifying devastation on screen, can’t help the unconscious turn of his head.

The draining sensation grows stronger, as if someone is desperately pulling on the other end.

Ostensibly, he and his aunt have equal, complementary shares in their magic. It’s how Gemini witches are supposed to function. But she had never had full access to their magic until he discovered his ability. And Pollux was always more powerful than Castor.

He can hardly hear himself breathe, much less pay attention to what the news reporters are saying on the TV. But something dangerous is going down in New York, and his aunt works in Manhattan.

 _Go_ , he thinks to himself, to his magic, to their magic, to her. _Go_.

Then he lets go.

In the future, when asked about what he was doing during the Avengers’ debut in the Battle of New York, all he will say is that he was in chemistry class. He will not add that he passed out, had to be brought to the hospital, and woke up three days later in perfect health with the doctors and his dad relieved but extremely confused as to what happened to him.

His aunt’s story is much cooler, anyway.


	7. (2016-02-29) ficlet

On Tuesday, a dragon came to Belleview, landed in the middle of town square, and said to all who haven’t run away screaming, “I’m looking for someone named Zim.”

Needless to say, only the most foolhardy of people remained to hear the dragon. That is, only teenagers trying to prove how fearless they are, which worked out fairly well considering Zim was in fact a teenager.

“Oh,” said Freddi, tilting her head far enough back to at least attempt to meet the dragon’s eyes, “Yes, I know him. Do you want me to get him? He’s probably at home right now.”

The dragon paused, humming lightly for him which, for the remaining bystanders in the town square, felt a bit like a mild earthquake. A claw tap tap tapped delicately against the ground, carving deep gouges and potholes into the fine brickwork of the courtyard.

“I believe I will go to him,” the dragon finally decided, “I’m delivering a gift for him from his aunt, and it’s rather large for humans. If you might tell me how to get to his house, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Antoine, not to be outdone, stepped up beside Freddi and began rattling off directions to Zim’s house from their current location.

Unfortunately, said directions were for vehicles, not giant flying reptiles, and so a discussion had to be had trying to reconcile the differences.

Meanwhile, more and more people, having noticed the ever growing group of teenagers failing to be eaten or incinerated, began approaching town square again. Most of them resumed their activities–as Tuesdays are fairly busy and generally agreed to be best suited for errands–but others, especially parents with small children and Belleview’s official ornithological association stepped closer.

The dragon, even while conversing with the teenagers, visibly preened. And once the modified directions ended with a, “There’s an ugly bright yellow SUV parked in front of it,” the dragon spent a few minutes more letting small children touch his shiny, fiery scales and the ornithologists examine his wings, before gently stepping away and launching himself back into the air.

On Tuesday, a dragon came to Belleview, bearing a gift. While the dragon didn’t come every Tuesday after that, he did land in the town square every time he had a delivery, even though he already knew where Zim lived.

—

R lives two subway stops away from the office, in a three bedroom apartment a block away from a grocery store, with an eternally revolving rotation of flatmates.

R thinks its convenient. The company thinks of it as protecting a very important asset. Also convenient.

This month’s flatmate is an artist with purple hair, a penchant for jumpsuits and krav maga, and a decidedly nocturnal lifestyle. It’s rather nice, R thinks, though she wouldn’t mind if Benny took out the trash more often. It’s only fair, she says to Patrick in between the meetings he schedules and the lunch he brings for her, since most of the trash is debris from Benny’s art projects. In his defense, Benny does so when she reminds him, but only when prompted.

R isn’t all that sure how exactly Patrick and Benny know each other, just that, like much of everything in her life, Patrick is the one to vet and arrange her flatmates, but later that night Benny takes out the trash and does so for the remaining three months he lives with her.

Patrick makes it very clear to all subsequent bodyguards that R is very important to the company and she should never have to ask for anything twice.

—

The first time Zim visits R at work is also the first time R accidentally destroys a corner office with a decorative fichus she thought was plastic until proven otherwise. Of course, then Zim tops it by shorting out the floor’s power and then they spend the next thirty minutes panicking by flooding the bathrooms and setting things on fire so, needless to say, by the time Patrick, Ann, and Bromley finally get there it’s a disaster zone.

R and Zim bravely say absolutely nothing. Zim also slips and knocks some poor employee’s outbox off their desk and onto the sopping wet floor. Said employee just balefully glances down from their dry perch on top of the desk and scoots everything several inches away.

“I see the magic dampeners aren’t doing much,” Patrick says, almost proud, while  
Bromley looks in horror at the ground and Ann begins the most disgruntled and delayed evacuation of the employees.

“I didn’t know this was going to happen,” R says, because it’s true but also because, as she’s been coached by Legal so many times, saying sorry means admitting you’re at fault. Which… she totally is in this case, but it wasn’t done on purpose. Normally, she and Zim have better control over their powers.

Then again, normally she and Zim are on opposite sides of the country.

“We can clean this up,” Zim volunteers, but then, glancing around he amends, “we can try to?”

A strangled noise of refusal and frustration crawls itself out of Bromley’s throat.

“I think it’d be better if we didn’t,” R says gently, before Patrick bursts out laughing.

“Alright you two,” Ann says, walking up to their group once she’s seen everyone else on their way off the floor, “time to clear the way so Bromley can do his thing.”

R ushers Zim towards the stairwell at Ann’s behest, not wanting to argue. Zim, however, being new, lingers long enough to ask, “But what about you and Patrick?” then, realizing something, “what exactly is Bromley’s thing?”

Ann chuckles, the sound of it echoing far more ominously in the stairwell than her expression warrants. “Patrick and I can handle ourselves,” she answers, then very definitively closes the door after them.

“But what is Bromley’s thing?” Zim repeats, turning to R with a plaintive expression.

R opens her mouth to answer then, after a pause, shuts it again. “It’s probably best if he explained it to you himself,” she says before leading the way down the stairs.

She can’t give him all the answers.


	8. Word Prompts (Z4): Zodiac

“You’re the Gemini witches,” Marla explains which isn’t so unusual–Marla is R’s go to for explaining witchy politics that Patrick, as a vampire, will simply never understand–except for how she’s looking at R the way one might upon seeing a cabbage on a library shelf amongst various books. Confused, yes, but also strangely alarmed.

After a beat of silence, R confirms, “Yes, Zim and I are Gemini witches,” because that’s all she can think to say. In fact, Marla was the one to provide the term: R and her nephew have access to a larger pool of magic than any single witch might have otherwise, but they have to share it. R’s ability came to her late in life, because she was only ever able to use it after Zim activated it last year.

“No, no,” Marla says, “you’re the Gemini witches,” she repeats putting emphasis on ‘the’, “which means you have a seat on the council.”

Now it’s R’s turn to stare in confusion.

“What council?”

—

Given the sheer size and variety of the country, there is no real way to govern all of the supernatural world while still keeping it a secret. In a way, the supernatural world is a bit of a frontier: lawless in some places, bits and pieces of territory claimed by those powerful and charismatic enough to maintain it. The company that R works for is one of the largest organization of supernatural beings in the country and they only number around sixty or so.

That being said, there are some efforts at creating governance, though mostly like sticks to like. While vampires and witches and werewolves and all the other creatures may no longer be at war, they are, at most, allies in a time of peace. Not a single nation, but many, only cooperating so long as it benefits all.

For the witches there is yet more variety. Different cultures of magic demanding different mindsets and morals. Where vampires and werewolves are tied together by their biology, witches are ultimately still human. What makes them different is what they can do, what they choose to do.

A witch can be as much a criminal as a normal human, but where a normal would need a gun or a bomb to cause destruction, all a witch needs is their magic and the desire to do so.

And so, the witches’ council, or one of them at least, which tries to bring order in a world without it.

And as the strongest Gemini witches in the country, R and Zim have a seat on the council.


	9. (2016-08-03) ficlet

The thing is, he looks like her sister. Obviously. Her sister is his mother,of course he would look like her sister.

Well, maybe not obviously–he could have taken more after his father–but the point still stands. He looks like her sister.

It’s not heartbreaking or anything like that. She can look at him and not feel grief or guilt or anything negative. Just growing affection for him and a fond nostalgia for Iris. But it’s odd, is all, uncanny.

Because Iris and R, for all that they were sisters, did not look similar to each other at all. Iris took after their mother, R after their father; their other two sisters were mixtures of their parents, but she and Iris had been opposite ends of the spectrum appearance wise.

Personality wise, too, though that has hardly any relevance almost a decade after Iris’ death.

They didn’t look the same, but growing up they had been… complementary. A matched set, despite their differences.

He looks like her sister, and because of that, it’s like they’re a matched set, too.

—

R gets to her apartment, tired and achey and hollowed out. Her current roommate is out–odd hours are to be expected from a vampire delivery bicyclist–which means she doesn’t feel at all embarrassed when she face plants into the sofa and groans long and low.

A twisting, jabbing gesture rips the magic from her body and gives it a form of its own–a leopard, to be exact–which immediately tries to curl on top of her as if it were actually a house cat and not a manifestation of her magic which weighs nearly twice as much as she does. She avoids being crushed, barely, and enjoys the full body vibrations of a giant cat purring.

“Today was awful,” she says to her magic, petting between velvety ears, “Just awful,” she repeats.

The problem with suddenly being the most powerful magician in the coven is that she doesn’t have any of the training or experiences to back it up. Which leads to situations where, instead of using magic, she’ll try to go the usual route which somehow ends with her spending two hours in some stranger’s pantry while rival magicians try to extract company secrets from her personal assistant.

Of course, Patrick is a lot more than just her PA–he’s one of the oldest members of the clan and, also, one of the company founders–but they knew how to inflict pain on a vampire and they knew how to make it stick.

“He’s going to take some days off, he really does deserve them” she continues, before her throat gets all choked up and her cheeks hot. She starts to cry.

Her magic grumbles when she clings to it, pressing tears into its fur, but otherwise doesn’t protest.

“It’s my fault,” she sobs, “it’s all my fault.”


	10. Cross Post: Ode To 11010201, Chapter Two [incomplete]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on livejournal

She doesn’t realize several hours have passed until Zim’s father, the stranger that is her brother-in-law, returns home. It’s late, almost one in the morning. He doesn’t notice she’s there immediately–the house is mostly dark except for the muted glow of a single lamp and the television screen. She gasps, jolted out of her doze at the sound of the door shutting. That alerts him to her presence. She’s frozen in indecisive surprise, staring. He stares back, but moves quickly, flicking the light switch on. She flinches away, blinded, but stays seated. She doesn’t have much choice.

Zim is asleep, lanky limbs stretched out over both the couch and her; his calves resting in her lap as they share a blanket. They had relocated to the living room a while ago, using movies as a preemptive buffer, but the volume had been turned low not long after. Though they had kept to light topics–likes and dislikes, silly hypothetical questions, hilarious high school anecdotes–there was a connection, thriving and earnest, made. Both were eager to share and listen, conversation overlapping out of excitement, laughter cheerfully mutual, silences brief and comfortable. That is not the case now.

Blinking the spots away, her vision clears in time to show her a wary middle-aged man, jacket over what looks like pajamas? No, scrubs. He has a baseball bat in hand, cautiously at the ready. She inhales shakily, swallows the sudden lump in her throat. He seems calm, having come around the sofa and spotting the unharmed state of his son, but still–she can imagine the damage even one swing could do.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” His voice is determined and authoritative but it’s… off. This is the first time they’re speaking, but it seems as if something is lacking. He’s tired. Physically, obviously, considering the late hour. She would even tentatively guess emotionally, too, from his posture and his face. And his actions, because she’s pretty sure it’s not standard procedure to draw a weapon on someone even if they are a stranger in your home. That speaks of paranoia, extremely prepared paranoia.

Zim stirs, humming and twitching, before she can answer. He’s amazingly nonchalant considering the situation, rubbing at his eyes and sluggishly moving to a more vertical position. He ends up going too far that he’s leaning against her, pressed shoulder to shoulder. It’s notably trusting. It convinces his father to put the bat away, hidden in the umbrella stand by the door. All the while he’s murmuring, “Hey, Dad. This is Mom’s sister R, she got my letter and came earlier today to visit. We stayed in. Had sandwiches for lunch and pizza for dinner, she likes pineapple, mushroom, and black olives, too; see, it’s not weird. I forgot to wash the SUV, but I finished laundry before she arrived so I did pretty well, I think.”

The look her brother-in-law gives Zim is simultaneously relieved and exasperated. The look he gives her is strikingly blank.

“Sorry,” she blurts out reflexively, “sorry, this was completely out of the blue. I can go, it’s late, you must be exhausted; sorry,” She nudges Zim a little, he grumbles but sits up on his own, before standing. Brushing imaginary dust and not-quite-imaginary crumbs off of herself so her hands have something to do. She should probably apologize for that as well.

“Yeah,”

“Dad!”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Zim’s father–ugh, she’s terrible, she really should know what her brother-in-law’s first name is–holds a hand out to stop her exit. She freezes because, she’s not sure if he knows it, but that was the hand the baseball bat was in. Also, she’s sleepy enough that she doesn’t actually want to go outside. “I meant, yeah, I’m exhausted. But you don’t have to go. Like you said, it’s late, and I wouldn’t feel to good about you driving back to the inn now.”

“Oh, no, I walked,” If she were more aware, she’d probably slap herself on the forehead. Then again, if she were more aware she probably wouldn’t have said; that really was not the point she was meant to pick up on.

“In that case, you have to stay tonight!” Zim hops to his feet, somehow both sleepy and enthusiastic, “We’ve got a guest bedroom upstairs; well, we use it more as a storage room office sort of thing, but there’s a bed and I’ve just changed the sheets. I can lend you some clothes to sleep in, too.”

His father looks less keen on her presence; there’s no outright protesting, but she can tell. Zim’s tugging gently at the cuff of her cardigan, though, intent to guide her to the guest room; but… “Is this okay?” She’s turned toward him still, hasn’t looked away. She wonders what kind of expressions are dancing across Zim’s face at this halting, hesitating exchange.

“… Yeah,” It’s a conflicted permission; he doesn’t trust her, but he really wants to sleep, “We’ll have breakfast, late breakfast, in the morning. Later in the morning.” It is not a request.

“I’ll make waffles,” They’re making their way upstairs now, Zim guiding her to the guest bedroom–third door on the right of the hallway.

“If you don’t mind me using them, I can make cinnamon apple topping,” She offers, because her culinary skill set is limited to eggs, apples, and experiments often ending in disaster.

“That sounds awesome,” he flashes an easy grin then turns to his father, “Dad, you go ahead and sleep. I’ve got it, we’ll see you in the morning. Proper morning, when the sun’s up, even.”

“If you’re sure,” He hedges, but already heads toward the opposite end of the hallway, presumably where the master bedroom is. “G'night.” His door shuts with a soft click.

Their own sleepiness returns with a vengeance. After Zim grabs her some clothes–they’re comfortable but slightly too large, unsurprising, considering he’s is half a foot taller than her–they both settle down to sleep. Her temporary room is filled with boxes. She’s curious but decides not to snoop around; partially out of manners, partially out of exhaustion.

Maybe in the morning.

—

She’s already made a start on making breakfast, because she’s still sort of on east coast time but also her nerves have come back with a vengeance, leaving her with far too much energy to not want to do something productive. As it is, she’s been peeling and chopping some of the apples; there’s a huge bowl full of them but she’s only using six. It’s soothing, giving her hands something to do while her brain decompresses.

She didn’t actually snoop through the boxes in her temporary bedroom, but she explored the first floor of the house. From what she’s seen, it’s nice. There are hardly any doors, it’s all open archways that connect living room and kitchen and dining room into one giant space. She spotted a few things she could see that spoke of Iris, but not as many as she was expecting. It’s probably because there are two men in this house, she figures, a stark contrast to the five woman household of their adolescence.

It makes her wonder what to tell Mama, Daphne, and Zoe. If she should even say anything at all. A part of her feels guilty, since she put such a big emphasis on family yesterday. But then again, Zim was the one that wrote specifically to her, so it would be best to let him go at his own pace. Also, it makes her feel vindicated, in a sense. Smug, almost. That she’s the one he reached out to first.

—

(during breakfast, introductions)

“… Mr. Szymanski?”

“John. You’re Iris’ sister, you should call me John,” He offers his hand, “Is it–”

“Just call me R,” she interrupts. For the best, really.

—

(THE REVEAL)

Oh. That. That explains a lot. And yet. It hits her out of nowhere. She can’t. She hadn’t been expecting this. Something else. Iris is dead.

“Oh my god. I thought she-” Iris is dead. Her face is getting warm, at the top of her cheeks and around her eyes. She wants to cry. She want to hide her face. She wants muffle any sound that might come out of her mouth. She does not do the first but, ducking her head down and biting her knuckles, she does the other two.


	11. Cross Post: Ode to 11010201, Training Wheels [incomplete]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on livejournal

“Salt?”

“Yes. Your observational skill are unparalleled, have you considered a career as a detective?”

“Well that’s just rude. And what do you expect me to do with it? I’m trying to live a low-sodium lifestyle, get a head start you know?”

“What he means is, why are you giving us salt?” She cut in, glancing at the small pile in her hand. The individual grains are already sticking to her damp palms uncomfortably, but she didn’t want to just upend them onto the work table. That’d be messy, and surely Dr. Kaiza had a reason.

“You asked for a way to use your abilities in close quarters”

—

“I don’t know why you think I’d know more about your ability than you do. I’m a doctor. Yes, I’m the leading metahuman doctor, but that’s because I’ve built up decades of experience in trial and error. It’s still trial and error. Most of my patients are entirely new generations of metahumans. Your abilities… well, most magic-users’ abilities are from bloodlines. And not necessarily genetics. There’s a family that have magic because an ancestor signed a contract with a demon, they themselves don’t have any genetic predisposition towards magic. It may help if you looked into your family history, obviously it’s not from the Szymanski line, so it must be from the Michalis.”

“Or the Chacone.”

“What?”

“My mother is Michalis, my father is Chacone. Iris must have dropped Chacone when she married John… though, I don’t really understand why considering… well. How that ended up.”

“Riveting.”

“Sorry,”


	12. Cross Post: Ode to 11010201, Familiar and Flight [incomplete]

They have other people in their lives–mutual, if still separate, family; his pack, her coven–but they developed a somewhat unhealthy dependency on each other. Despite the fact she’s already returned home (back to where her apartment is) and his school has started up again, they keep in contact and continue to practice magic with each other. With Dr Kaiza being extremely unhelpful and unnecessarily vague as usual, most of what they “practice” is improving what they’ve already done and testing what ideas from science fiction and fantasy novels are possible. There’s a googledoc list they both have access to, which changes whenever one of them comes up with something new to try or has to record a successful or unsuccessful attempt. 

Unsurprisingly, there are more failures than not.

They’re supposed to be working on the simpler, less dangerous things due to the distance. But she honestly didn’t think this one would do anything, so she gave it a half-hearted shot. Now there’s a leopard in her bedroom. Specifically, on her bed.

She had practically flung herself to the corner of her room in an act of self-preservation. Somewhat dumb self-preservation because it had been away from the door and windows, and now there’s a leopard between her and the escape routes. She doesn’t know what to do. So far, it’s just been staring at her, but that doesn’t mean it won’t attack at some point. She stays as still as possible, because that’s worked for the past five minutes and she doesn’t want to push her luck. And anyway, she doesn’t have access to a near enough water source or an effectively threatening plant form. While she has been working on wind based moves, it’s her third element for a reason and she can barely summon a mild breeze to set off her wind chime much less a gust strong enough to knock over a full grown leopard.

It’s tail swishes back and forth menacingly, hypnotically. Maybe it’s waiting until she passes out from fear or exhaustion before attacking. One giant paw creeps toward her. Or maybe not. It begins to step off the bed when …

—

This was not his original intent. It wasn’t quite an accident, but he didn’t begin with this in mind. That happened later.

He had meant to work through some of the more harmless spells from the Harry Potter series–helpful, nothing too dangerous. But there were only so many cover stories he could tell about why all the locks were melted before logic demanded he give up on Alohomora. Though that didn’t stop him from deliberately melting the lock to Mrs Jerry’s classroom, conveniently postponing the physics exam until tomorrow since no one could actually get to them.


	13. Cross Post: Ode to 11010201, Prior Claim [incomplete]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on livejournal

Though the unexpected magical ability was entirely odd, it was just another thing that she felt supplemented their burgeoning familial relationship. She was as clueless to their shared powers as he was, but it seemed to rid both of them of any lingering doubts. They were family now. Magical family, apparently, but still family. It explained some of their first encounter at any rate, his insistence that windchimes and a dropped length of rope would stop someone now seemed perfectly valid when magic could conceivably make those seemingly innocuous items a formidable defense. Though she hadn’t considered to ponder on who he was trying to keep out. Or what.

In her brief time with him, she had learned a little of his life. Knew that he wasn’t exactly popular by any means, but had a loyal best friend and long lasting crush on a girl and a dislike for someone who he wouldn’t name but referred to often enough in conversations and a penchant for trouble. It was the last that made her wonder about the rest. Because even though they had been getting along, there were just some things–some secrets–that couldn’t be brought up randomly even to a suddenly appearing family member.

It was during one of her solitary explorations of the town–Zim had bowed out of more familial bonding with an apologetic but desperate expression; she figured that space probably was needed on both ends and had reassured him that she didn’t feel slighted in the least–that she stumbled upon a group of people she really wouldn’t have thought were involved with her nephew until she picked up on their angry, loud, and unsubtle dialogue. Or rather, she stumbled into them.

Yes, just play it off as if she had tripped just to catch their attention. Not that she was just bad at basic coordination. The tear in her cardigan and bleeding elbow was definitely on purpose.

“How do you know Zim?” She asked, after her embarrassment and brief introductions.

“Bring her with you. Your chances of fixing your mistakes will increase,” The woman–a doctor from the looks of the white coat and the automatic offering of wet-wipe and bandage–gave a familiar, patronizing pat to the older boy’s–Tarek’s–head before walking away. From his expression, he was displeased at the world in general and at the dismissal in particular, but ultimately resigned. The younger boy–Kevin, same as Zim’s best friend– had wide eyes made even wider by concern, and looked less sure. About seemingly everything, in her opinion. Though from what her nephew told her, that may just be his default.

“Where are we going?”

“The forest. There’s an… issue… with Zim.” Kevin unhelpfully didn’t explain, kept looking at Tarek for some kind of cue, hesitant and waiting.

—

She wouldn’t have picked it out as a clearing by sight–being an urban dweller for the majority of her life left her severely unequipped with forest-related terms–but she felt something the closer they got to it. Sharply cold, yet fuzzy and heavy in her lungs. Kevin went straight for the girl shockingly armed with a short sword of some type–who somehow mystifyingly still looked friendly and approachable despite it–while Tarek stopped enough that she stepped up to his side, no longer needing to follow.

“Where’s Kaiza?” His sister, with similar hair and eye color and penchant for leather jackets, glared at him perplexed.

“She said to bring her,”

“What’s happening? Where’s Zim?”

…

—

The group of faeries revealed themselves, the light going hazy for a bit, four of them with a dazed looking Zim in the middle.

“Is this your negotiator or have you brought us another pet?”

“This is… R… she’s here to take him back.”

“Oh and how will you do that, Miss R? What do you have that they do not?”

What did she know about faeries? What did anyone know about faeries? This was so out of the realm of her knowledge it wasn’t even funny. What did she have that three werewolves–and she and Zim were going to talk about this, though she’s not at all surprised they exist considering… magic–and one extremely well-armed warrior didn’t? She has magic. No, Zim has magic too and more experience with it besides, that’s not it. Wait… yes… there is something specific that she has that the others don’t. Something that has nothing to do with ability, something that… then it hit her as she looked at the others around her: Laila and Tarek were siblings. Kevin was part of their pack. Kevin and Madison were dating.

“I have prior claim. He’s mine, you can’t take him.”

“Prove it.”

“He… he is blood of my blood.”

Their silence implied it was not enough. And, that made sense. She wasn’t his closest relative, he wasn’t hers necessarily.

“I… he… he was named after me! His mother named him after me!”

“His name is Zim-”

“His true name and my true name. Two of my names were given to him by his mother, that is more than anyone else even his father. So he is mine.”


	14. Redux ficlet (2017-06-28)

“The Premier Gemini Witch is coming to Belleview next week,” Doctor Kaiza said, apropos of nothing.

Zim, carefully organizing all of the potion ingredients in a chromatic gradient, shrugged and gave an uncertain and noncommittal, “Okay.”

Kaiza didn’t say anything further because clarification burned her lungs and withered her soul. Or so Zim theorized.

In her defense, it wasn’t as if he asked for an explanation.

That was a mistake.

—

The Premier Gemini Witch, capital letters practically audible, was tiny. A good foot and a half shorter than Zim–which, perhaps, wasn’t saying much since Zim was stringy and stretched out like the best kind of grilled cheese–which also put her eye level below Doctor Kaiza’s chin, even.

The Premier Gemini Witch was also surprisingly young.

“The youngest luminary on the council,” she agreed, so absent of tone that it was only fact, not brag.

The weirdest thing about all of it wasn’t that the Premier Gemini Witch had such a large presence despite her age and size, but that Kaiza was giving in to it and fawning over her.

Well, a cup of tea and a lack of paperwork or unimpressed eyebrows was practically fawning from the doctor.

Not even Nyx, a literal Devil’s Advocate, or Azrael–as in, yes, the actual Angel of Death–rated that kind of respect.

Zim seriously regretted not asking for more information.

—

The Premier Gemini Witch was one of twelve members of the Premier Witch Council. The council loosely ruled over the nation’s magical society: the luminaries weren’t a formal oligarchy, but they did have final say on large scale disputes and enforcement of the few laws that existed in their community. Less elected officials and more justices of the peace.

The luminaries were each the strongest of their kind, regardless of heritage or history or training. The Premier Taurus Witch was the strongest earth witch, an old woman over a century old and nearer to dryad than human. The Premier Sagittarius Witch was the only living being to have traveled beyond the planet’s atmosphere without billions of dollars, teams of scientists, tons of metal and rocket fuel, and a government agency.

The strangest thing about the Premier Gemini Witch was not that she had significant influence over the largest vampire clan in the nation–the two subspecies being notoriously at odds with each other–or that she had never undergone any kind of training before becoming a luminary. No, the strangest thing about the Premier Gemini Witch was that she was powerful enough to become a luminary despite only having access to half of her magic.

Traditionally, there were thirteen luminaries on the Premier Witch Council.

Traditionally, there were two Premier Gemini Witches.

—

The Premier Gemini Witch–“please, call me R”–would be staying in Belleview for one month.

If ever Zim had seen Doctor Kaiza nervous or flustered it was nothing compared to how she reacted to that news: bizarrely, coyly shy, like a teenage girl meeting her idol. Frankly? Zim was freaked the fuck out.

It wasn’t as if he bought into Kaiza’s emotionless, neutral reputation; he’d be a shitty sort-of student if he did–and her weird rivalry with Grey Investigations could only inspired by a level of pettiness born from the heart–but this was definitely a new side of the doctor that he had never seen before.

“But what is she here for?” Zim asked later, as he rearranged potion ingredients back to their original alphabetical organization under Kaiza’s displeased eye.

It was her turn to shrug, uncertain and noncommittal.

—

The Premier Gemini Witch was there to meet him.

The Premier Gemini Witch knew his mother.

The Premier Gemini Witch was his mother’s sister.

“I came to this town thinking I would reunite with my sister. Thinking that maybe the broken seal on our magic meant that she was willing to see me–willing to open communication, at least. But a year passed and nothing,” the Premier Gemini Witch–R, his aunt, his sister’s mother–said, voice curled around a heartbroken, resigned sigh.

His dad sometimes sounded like that, too, when he talked about Zim’s mom.

“And so I came to this town only to find that my sister has been dead for nearly a decade and I have a nephew whose magic I share but whose name I don’t even know.”

—

The Premier Gemini Witch–the second, missing Premier Gemini Witch–was Zim.


	15. Redux ficlet, Court and Counsel (2017-06-30)

Phineas Park was an Asian-American second generation immigrant, an associate lawyer of Manson, Pataki & Sanchez, and a witch.

He did not always think of himself as such in that particular order or that combination of facts.

Still, they were pertinent details about himself which remained in his mind for the duration of the court case.

—

Law in the magical society was nowhere near so meticulous or empty as law in the non-magical society. No firm government and no strict regulations meant that magicians could do as they pleased until another magician found their actions reprehensible.

And even then, most cases were relegated to the local authority–witch coven, vampire clan, werewolf pack, et cetera–unless a truly heinous crime had been committed or no single local authority could make a fair and unbiased judgement.

In such circumstances, the case would be brought before the Premier Witch Council.

—

If he were to be frank, Phineas would have preferred a different case for his first lead–magical or not.

He was excited about finally being lead, that was not in question, but to be the defendant for that particular witch for that particular crime was not one that he would have jumped given the choice.

Well, any case before the Premier Witch Council was one to be seized with both hands, immediately, regardless of the moral ambiguity contained within.

But he was pretty sure he set himself up to lose.

—

Witch lawyers weren’t terribly rare–words and willpower bringing about concrete change–though there was not yet an entirely witch law firm.

Still, there was a reasonable sized pool of witch lawyers that the Premier Witch Council could summon as needed.

They were needed.

—

“I bring before the esteemed luminaries of the Premier Witch Council the case of the Red River Coven versus Helen Monroe.”

Phineas risked a glance at his client and regretted it immediately. Monroe did not look at all troubled at being sued by her former coven in front of the Premier Witch Council. Normally, he’d appreciate such confidence and borrow some secondhand himself, but Monroe was so beyond confident it was falling into bored, dismissive, and just plain rude.

This was not the contrite, humbled client he was hoping for.

Another glance to his other side–where the head of the Red River Coven and her lawyer sat–made it even worse.

Still, so long as he stuck to the plan, he and Monroe had a chance.

—

“My fellow luminaries,” the Premier Taurus Witch said from her seat, centermost and highest as befitting her seniority, “if there is any one among us who cannot pass judgement fairly and without bias on this day, let them speak.”

There was barely a pause. That statement generally was a matter of formality–there had only been four cases in the history of the Premier Witch Council that a luminary opted to defer their judgement.

“Then let us–”

“My apologies, fellow luminaries,” interrupted the Premier Gemini Witch. She sat at the very end as youngest and newest luminary, but her placement was not a reflection of a lack of influence or power.

“I am… emotionally compromised for this case,” the Premier Gemini Witch continued, unheeding of the surprised looks it garnered her, “I will forgo my judgement.”

—

The Premier Gemini Witch was known to be liberal in terms of subspecies interaction and innovative takes on magic.

It was a stretch to consider his client’s actions as such, but that had been the basis of Phineas’ argument.

Even Monroe was beginning to look worried.

They were fucked.

—

The case of the Red River Coven v Helen Monroe was not important as a legal precedent.

Monroe had come across a lone werewolf who had attacked and harmed–under the frenzy of a full moon and without the stabilizing presence of a pack–a group of non-magical people in the territory of the Red River Coven.

Regardless of her intent or thought process, Monroe proceeded to hide said werewolf from her coven, and experiment in spells that she referred to as “calming.”

The head of the Red River Coven described them as “controlling.”

If that had been all, that case would not have been brought before the Premier Witch Council, and Phineas would not have been involved leading to his first time as lead being besmirched.

That was not all.

—

The Delano Pack was one of the oldest, strongest, and most prestigious in the nation. In its prime, it was said to have an influence on par with the Premier Witch Council, and helped lead the magical society forward to the current age of cooperation and progress. The Delano Pack was, without question, the greatest werewolf pack in the nation’s history and had once had a strong bid for international history as well.

Was. Had. All past tense.

Nearly a decade ago, the Delano Pack suffered a great loss and was a shell of its former self, holding onto its territory more out of respect from its neighbors than any real ability to enforce it.

Not a bad place for a witch and her guinea wolf to flee.

—

The Delano Pack declined to send a representative, but its members had sent witness statements.

They did not help Phineas whatsoever.

Monroe, with werewolf thrall in tow, had stumbled onto some of the newer members of the Delano Pack. In her surprise, the control spell she had on her lone werewolf broke, causing him to attack what he saw as the immediate threats.

The members of the Delano Pack defended themselves and, arguably, so did Monroe.

Monroe, as seen with her werewolf thrall, specialized in mind magics.

For three months–rather than explain the situation and request clemency from the Delano Pack, or even admit her crimes and return to face justice with her original coven–Monroe maintained an amnesia spell on the pack, centered around one member in particular: the Delano Pack’s only witch.

—

“I thought he was a regular human,” Monroe explained, as if her methodology were the problem, “Obviously, if I had known he was a witch, too, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Phineas winced.

“It still took him a while to break it, though,” Monroe continued, to which Phineas began gesturing for her to stop, sharp pulls of his hand across his throat.

She wasn’t looking. The prosecutor could not have looked more pleased.

“Clearly not very well trained. Though given the closest thing to a witch in that territory is Kaiza, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Some of the luminaries reacted to the name: a roll of the eyes from those who saw Kaiza as only playing at magic, a deep furrowing of her brows from the Premier Taurus Witch.

But the Premier Gemini Witch’s expression had flattened even before Kaiza had been mentioned.

—

When they were younger, their relatives thought that Phineas and his sister Phryne would be gemini witches. Or, rather, dragon-phoenix twins.

While they hadn’t been actual fraternal twins, they had been born in the same lunar year, and for the longest time had resonating magic.

Then it turned out that Phineas was a libra witch and Phryne a scorpio witch, and the matter had been dropped.

Siblings often had resonating magic, learning the same spells and living in the same house, the same blood coursing through their veins.

But gemini witches were something beyond just resonance, a magic that was both shared and compounded between two people that, yes, were more often than not siblings.

But not always.

—

The prosecutor, who was a wily piece of shit, decided to hammer the final nail in Phineas’ coffin by asking one final question.

“If I may address the esteemed luminaries directly,” she asked, and with a impatient wave from the Premier Taurus Witch continued, “For what reason did the Premier Gemini Witch forgo her judgement?”

A blatant grab for extra testimony which would never be allowed in a nonmagical court… mostly because in nonmagical courts, the jury was not also the judge and the systems were entirely different.

The Premier Gemini Witch paused, recognizing the obvious manipulation, but capitulated when no further word from the Premier Taurus Witch was said. She steeled her jaw and responded simply, “A gemini witch’s greatest strength is also their greatest weakness.”

For a moment, the court was silent. Uncomprehending. That was a basic fact about gemini witches which didn’t answer the question at all.

Until, after another moment, it clicked in Phineas’ mind. He turned to his client: Monroe, finally, belatedly, began to look horrified at what she had done.

—

The case of the Red River Coven v Helen Monroe was not important as a legal precedent.

The case of the Red River Coven v Helen Monroe was not important because of the parties involved.

The case of the Red River Coven v Helen Monroe was only important in that it was the first and only case in which a luminary’s reason for deferring their judgement was because the defendant had committed a greater crime than even they knew.


	16. Redux ficlet, Fire and Water (2017-07-18)

_My mom loved fireworks, the flashing lights and the colors, the patterns made in the sky. She loved the whistle as it went up, the way the boom reverberated in your lungs–she loved to shout along with it. The lingering shapes of smoke left over and how it reminded people to look up, made them children staring in amazed wonderment._

_And she always got us the best seats in the house, “being part of the Fire Brigade has its perks,” she’d say, swinging me up into her arms, never mind my eternally sticky hands._

_Children always have sticky hands for some reason._

_She had a dangerous job, but she had a passion for it. Respected what fire could do, but didn’t fear it._

_She didn’t die in a fire._

_Sometimes I wonder whether that would have been better or worse._

—

Zim invites the Premier Gemini Witch–R, she’s asked to be called, and he’s trying, he swears–out to join him and his friends to the Independence Day festival. Maybe she’ll refuse, they’re still mostly strangers temporarily sharing the same work space, and he doesn’t know the exact age difference between them, but it does exist.

Still, he can’t say he didn’t offer.

And it seems sad to him, imagining the Premier Gemini Witch all on her own at the clinic, tirelessly searching for her sister to no avail.

She hesitates, staring at him as if she could read his mind–which, maybe? She is a luminary–before nodding and organizing her table for the day.

Zim, somewhat self-consciously, glances over the mountain of junk on his worktable.

Eh. He’ll fix it later.

—

His friends don’t mind the tagalong; some mild greetings aside they mostly ignore her.

Which seems a little irreverent considering her position in magical society, but the Premier Gemini Witch doesn’t seem to mind. Actually, she seems to prefer it, what with the lack of formal introductions.

“You can just call me R,” she says, before consuming what must be half her weight in festival food.

The third chili cheeseburger–after four pork tamales, two large packets of curly fries, an order of takoyaki, and three giant cups of different specialty lemonades–is when he feels comfortable and vaguely horrified enough to actually call her R.

His friends reached that point way earlier.

“Where do you fit it all?” Belinda asks, squinting, as if through sheer force of will she could see the tapeworm R must have.

R shrugs, unashamed, and says “I need a lot of energy.”

Well, considering she’s been running a search spell constantly for the past three weeks, he’s not surprised.

—

When the fireworks go off, she flinches, mouth turned down tight. But still she looks skyward, mesmerized, unblinking even as tears start to fall down her face.

“My sister loves fireworks,” R says, in between little gasping sobs. Kevin hands over a handkerchief which she presses over her eyes, Belinda shoots glares at anyone who looks their way askance.

“I don’t understand. Why can’t I find her? What if I can’t find her?”

Zim puts a hand on her shoulder, but says nothing.

—

_What could I have possibly said?_


	17. Mumu 1/? (2017-09-10)

There is nothing more frightening–more heartbreaking, more compelling–than the word “almost.”

Even just the sound of it: the open vowel, beginning. The lingering L on your tongue. Then lips together, lips apart. The sibilant S sliding into the sharp, concluding, definitive T.

Almost.

How many stories revolve around that word? How many tales do we tell? Suspense and drama in every rising beat. I almost got caught. I almost got married. I almost died.

The potential of an action; a “could have” that didn’t. Regret and hope; a pinch of danger and a dash of excitement. Within reach but never touching and still somehow we are changed for–

Ah, excuse me, I almost gave away the ending.

///

Tik-Tik. Tik-Tik.

What is that sound in the night?

If you’re lucky, you don’t know what that is. If you’re lucky, it’s only a clock; or the wind blowing tree branches against your window.

If you’re not–well. How well do you know your neighbors?

In this episode we cover the manananggal who, by day, walks among us human beings without any notice. Just one of us.

But by night they feast on the hearts of the young–though they’ll make do with adults if they have to–a dark shape in the sky and in our minds.

So if you hear that noise or spot a pair of legs without a body, standing and waiting, then you better grab some garlic and wait for sunrise: you might be next.

This is Heritage Horrors!

///

It’s been a long day.

Work: more of a disaster than usual. Draining and miserable. A complication in your project which you had to finish before heading home because if you waited until next week it’d be too late and the company you work for always has to be at the forefront of everything. You’d appreciate that ambition and drive–you have it in yourself, after all–but not when it forces you to do overtime hours without the overtime pay.

And you don’t even get to go to your nice, comfy bed afterwards. Nope.

Heading home in this case does not mean going back to your apartment in the city with your queen sized bed and silk sheets. It does not mean going out to your favorite restaurant, or getting drinks from your favorite bar. It doesn’t even mean making yourself some instant ramen and binge-watching a series on Netflix.

Nope. Today heading home means actually going home. To your hometown three hours away by car. To the house you grew up in and long since left behind. To your family.

Your entire family.

Lola is in the hospital.

Sure, the day was long, but it looks like your night’s going to be even longer.


	18. Mumu 2/? (2017-09-13)

There’s a ringing in your ear. Or maybe it’s the sound of rushing blood. Or your brain, futilely hyperaware, trying to pick out sound beyond the inside of your care.

An internal issue tricking you into thinking something is out there.

Someone, maybe.

But that’s impossible.

You’re driving on an empty highway in the middle of the night on a weekday, nothing in your headlights. Your foot’s a little heavy on the gas, but it’s nothing to worry about. Reckless, yes, but not stupid.

Not yet.

It helps keep you awake, along with the podcast playing from your dash. You tried the radio but at this time your favorite station is playing EDM and that just gives you a headache–not that you need another on top of what you already have.

You’re afraid of what happens if it gets too quiet.

///

You blink.

Your eyelids are getting heavier by the second.

Highway hypnosis–there’s no one on the road but you and the dashed, painted lines–no need for you to pay attention, really, all four lanes for you alone.

The trees on either side just dark blurs in your rearview mirror, held off by the short, rusting metal railing.

You blink.

When you were a child, you used to stare out the window, imagining fantastical creatures running on top of the edge, impossibly fast, always hiding behind each post before you could spot them.

Now you’re an adult, the driver, and far too focused to looking through the windshield to notice the views.

You blink.

///

A blaring horn. Lights painting your eyelids red. You gasp awake and turn the steering wheel to the right, just barely getting out of the way of the oncoming car. You swerve too far, desperately aiming for the shoulder, and slam your foot on the brakes. A juddering, head ramming halt.

Your heart beats too fast, adrenaline, and for a few moments you grip the steering wheel so tight in your hands.

Fuck.

FUCK!

You scream your fear, sound absorbed by upholstery and the quick over night bag shoved into the back seat. Belatedly, you put on the hazard lights.

That was too close. Too close.

///

The adrenaline fades. Hands shaking, you text your sister.

No use calling your mom, her guilt-tripping is the reason why you’re driving tonight instead of waiting until the weekend, but you need to rest a little before continuing on.

In the safety of the shoulder and with hazard lights on, a short nap sounds like a good idea. Crack the windows a little, lower your seat, and you’ll only be delayed by fifteen, thirty minutes.

When you wake up, you’re not alone.


	19. Mumu 3/? (2017-10-08)

Family means a lot to you, obviously, you wouldn’t be doing this if they weren’t, but that speaks more of obligation than your actual feelings.

When you were younger, you didn’t talk much. You were shy, even with your cousins–loud and boisterous and used to playing and fighting and play-fighting with each other–and preferred to trail after your uncle as he gardened, holding trowels or empty flower pots, and nodding as he explained what each plant was called and how to care for it.

Most of that went in one ear and out the other, your lack of green thumb a characteristic and no longer a disappointment, but they were good memories.

Useful in their own way.

///

When you open your eyes again, heavy but thankfully not desperately dry, you wonder for a moment if you’re seeing things.

On your windshield, delicate and patient, is a black butterfly. Frankly, you are surprised you can see it–if it is real, that is–in the dark even the woods outside are mostly a blur of imagined shapes.

Small and alone, wings flapping in a sedate rhythm, the butterfly flutters away.

You don’t know yet that this is a sign.

///

During one such gardening occasion, you were wearing your shirt inside out.

A small detail, not particularly noteworthy–even now you don’t care for the scratch of tags against the back of your neck, when your appearance is less important than comfort you still do the same–except that your uncle remarked on it:

“That’s good,” he had said, tugging on the tag, “this way you won’t get lost.”

At your look of confusion, he had explained that it was a saying: when a person is lost, they should turn their shirt inside out.

Hours later, you were still baffled. It wasn’t as if your address was on your tag, how could an inside out shirt save you from being lost?

Ingeniously, you remembered that your uncle had been part of the military; sometimes maps would be sewn on the inner lining of jackets. For a while, you considered the mystery solved.

Ingenious does not mean correct: you were missing the necessary context.

///

Up in the mountains where the air is thin and ground unsteady, it’s easy to fall. Short of breath, unsteady footing–sometimes people just don’t come back from a climb.

Sometimes people are disrespectful, loud and polluting. Sometimes mountains fight back.

And if they do, well, whose fault is it if the mountains win?

In this episode we talk about the mountains’ guardians: the tikbalang, a humanoid horse trickster with a bone to pick with trespassers and the ability to back it up.

Are you brave enough to travel into their kingdom and, more importantly, are you clever enough to escape?

This is Heritage Horrors!


	20. AU ficlet, 1/? (2018-07-30)

The curse is spreading through Kevin’s body–poison coursing through his veins–and the only counter Zim and the doc have managed to find is death of the host. That’s one shitty cure.

But Zim’s been able to burn it away, use the hosts’ hearts as foundation, turn his penchant for literal fire into a more figurative, ethereal fire. He has an idea, a desperate, foolish hope, but if he can’t save Kevin then what’s the point of doing all that work? All that research? What’s the point of being magic if he can’t protect the people he cares about?

Doc Kaiza isn’t here to stop him–she’s back at the clinic, more research and calling on her contacts, too slow for what matters–and so it’s just Zim and Kevin and the eldritch entity steadily, thoroughly, working its way through Kevin’s being.

If Zim can’t stop it here and now–before Kaiza makes the call, the final decision to sacrifice the one for the whole of humanity–then Kevin will die. One way or another.

One way or another, Zim is going to prevent that.

“You can’t make fun of me for this,” Zim says to whatever is left of Kevin in Kevin’s body, “For at least two weeks, okay?”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, because the eldritch entity has already taken control of that part of him–an hour ago it made a horrifying screech which shook the town–but his nose crinkles in a familiar tic of confusion, and that’s good. That’s great. That’s all Zim needed.

So he darts forward, shoves a hand over Kevin’s nose–because that at least, in part, is still his, still human, even as the rest of his him lashes out with more power and wrongness than should be possible–and waits for the body to open its mouth. Either to breathe, if it still has to, or to screech once more, defending its terrible existence.

When it does, Zim seals his mouth over it. Less like a kiss and more like he’s trying to literally eat Kevin’s face, a giant bite intended to swallow down more than the chili cheese fries from the Tommy’s Burgers on Orchard Street.

The entity shrieks and it travels directly into Zim, down his throat and into his lungs, the force of it rattling and ominous. But Zim doesn’t stop. He inhales, he pulls, from Kevin into himself, curse drawn within bronchioles to capillaries to heart where his internal fire lives.

Kevin’s body drops to the ground, and Zim would check on him but it’s not done yet. The fight’s still going.

The curse is no longer in Kevin. That’s good, that’s the best thing that could happen. Now Kevin won’t have to die.

Now the curse is in Zim.

He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t have the extra energy to scream. Has to focus on damming the flow, shoring up his very being because the eldritch entity is hungry and not one for mercy.

Zim’s magic manifests itself as fire. Zim can use the hearts of hosts to burn away the curse. Zim’s magic lives in his heart.

He will burn the curse out of himself.

Survival is secondary.


	21. AU ficlet, 2/? (2018-08-04)

Zim wakes up on the ground, aching and stiff and what he imagines having a hangover is like, but he wakes up and that’s all that matters. He breathes and regrets it, feels like he’s burned his lungs. Feels like he’s burned everything really, even air seems to scrape against his raw nerves.

He struggles to turn, spots Kevin and painstakingly crawls that way. His fingers shake checking on his best friend–what if Zim was too late? What if the curse had hooked itself too deeply? What if taking the curse from Kevin killed him anyway?–but there is warm skin and a steady pulse and all that there is room for in his heart is relief.

“Impressive, octant,” says a voice Zim doesn’t recognize. He turns toward the sound even though his muscles screech in protest, he is tired from even that minimal effort, panting, pressing his cheek into the ground.

There are an unfamiliar pair of shoes not even a yard away, “Risky as fuck and terribly inefficient, but impressive nonetheless,” says the person attached to the unfamiliar shoes.

The unfamiliar legs bend, lowering an unfamiliar body and an unfamiliar head with an unfamiliar face attached so that Zim can see the stranger.

Unsurprisingly, Zim asks, “Who are you?” Voice rasping out from his damaged throat.

The stranger shrugs, dismisses his question, asks one of her own, “What made you think you could survive the curse, octant?”

This time, Zim shrugs. Or tries to. More of an attempt to twitch his shoulder, leading into a full body flinch, which causes him to groan in pain into the dirt.

The stranger sighs as if Zim were purposely avoiding her question. As if this were all a ploy to get out of it.

She presses a to his forehead, mutters something too low, too quick for him to parse, and a cool wave washes over him. No more pain.

“Better?” The stranger asks, and Zim nods, too surprised to be anything but truthful. “Now if you don’t mind, octant, answer my question.”

That’s the third time the stranger has called him that, but he keeps that confusion to himself.

“I didn’t,” he croaks. At her confused furrowed brow, he elaborates, “I didn’t think.”

Rather than look skeptical, as the doc might, or irritated, like Belinda, or even horrified, as Kevin will be when Zim tells him what happened, the stranger huffs a quick, soft laugh. A smile curves her mouth, almost fond, “Yeah, why am I not surprised?”

Zim thinks that’s something he would like to know, too, actually, but the stranger continues–both answering and confusing him further.

“Oh, octant, you’re just like your mother.”


	22. A Year of Voicemails

**1 - R to Iris - 8 months**

Hey Iris, it’s R. Um. I know that I said that I would stop calling you, uh, but, it’s been 8 months since we’ve spoken and a lot has happened since then. Um you–you might know that, uh, I moved… to New York. I um, I have a new job. They, um. They, uh, they seem to really like me here for some reason. They, um. They seem really close to each other and I–I like that, you know? I’m not very good at making friends, but I think I could be friends with these–with my coworkers–and they seem… They seem like family, and I guess that’s why I’m calling because… you know… how–how weird it is to be… almost family with these–these people that I’m being paid to work alongside when I haven’t even spoken to my real family in eight… months… I guess I just wanted to see how you were doing and if, maybe, you know, just start up the conversation again. Or, just, start one at all… You’re probably wondering why I’m calling now instead of… you know, earlier, like, um, I mean I–you know, um, our birthday was two months ago… yeah. That, um, that happened. And, um, I didn’t call you then, but, um, in my defense you didn’t call me either so… I guess we’re both a little bit at fault for that one, aren’t we? I, um… shit.

Erase message.

* * *

**2 - R to Patrick - 7 months**

Hey Patrick this is R! I’m, uh, stuck in traffic but you probably know that because I’m not in the office and I should be as… a… you know… dutiful employee should be at this time. Anyways, I was just calling to let you know, um–obviously I’m late–if you could let the Mathieson company, uh, the-their people–oh god–um, if you could let them know that I will be in as soon as possible and, you know, just stall for time, maybe… um… I mean, I–to be honest, if you want to just go ahead with the meeting without me you—I’m pretty sure you know the, uh, info better than I do, and, uh, as evidenced by this voicemail you are more, uh, eloquent and will probably… solidify this deal… sooner… and better than I–anyways! That’s not why I’m calling… yeah… did–sh-should I pick up anything on my way in? I mean, given the state of traffic, it’ll probably be lunchtime by the time I get back to the office… Okay! Call me back!

* * *

**3 - R’s failed voicemails - 11 months**

Hi, you’ve reached R Chacone the, uh–fuck.

Hi, you’ve reached R Chacone, the Chief Resource Officer of–wait, do I?–fuck.

Hi, you’ve reached R Chacone, the desk of me–shit.

Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail box–what? no, what? god, no–okay.

This is R Chacone and you’re… fucking watching Disney Channel or some–what the? what am I saying? God, okay.

* * *

**4 - R to Iris - 2 months**

Iris, call me back. You can’t just hide from everything, okay? We’ll deal with this together, just–just call me back, okay? And then we’ll figure things out. And then everything can just go back to normal, okay?

… okay, I love you. Okay, bye.

* * *

**5 - R to Iris - 4 months**

Iris. I don’t know where you are. I haven’t heard from you in months…

And, um… you know? I’m finally getting the message. You don’t want to talk anymore… and that’s… I mean, that’s–that’s on you. Just–just so you know, that’s on you. But, um, I’m gonna–I still want–you’re my sister, okay? So, even if you don’t want to talk, I still… just in case you ever do…

I’m calling because I’m moving, um, I-I’ll still keep this number in case you ever… change your mind… but, um… I’m moving and, um… I guess geographically and, you know, uh… life… 

I–this’ll be the last time, I think, because… at least from my end, because you’ve made it clear that… you don’t want there to be… anything from your end, so…

It. You’re still my sister… you are still… my sister… Bye Iris.

* * *

**6 - R to Patrick - 3 months**

Hi this is R Chacone, I’m calling back for, um, to Patrick regarding the voice message I got earlier today, regarding–wait, um, wha, I–regarding the, uh, job opening? Um, the-the resources? Um. Yeah, I’m–I just wanted to let you know that I am still interested and definitely available to, um, uh, yes. I would like to accept–

Ah fuck it. Um, I’ll just email. Delete message.

* * *

**7 - R to Patrick - 5 months**

Hi Patrick, it’s R… um… oh, geez, it’s late. Uh. Sorry about calling… outside of work hours… and… at… two thirty in the morning. Um. I guess I could have waited? Until we were both at the office to let you know but, um, I just–I just found it and I just thought it’d be good to inform you as soon as possible, um, that there is uh… so you know… in regards to the, um, Pine Star Group? Uh, I would suggest we… look… elsewhere because their financials are a little bit… hinky. I mean, I guess that’s not the professional words I would use… to describe it, but there’s something fishy with their financials and it–I-I do not think we can take on that kind of liability, um, I can–I have the documents, um, with me and obviously I can show them to you… tomorrow, or I guess later today, in… the office… but, um… basically their, um… yeah. 

They’re shifting a lot of money… around… and there’s not–I can’t tell where… it went. Which, I mean, my first instinct is, um… well, no, I was–I was gonna say maybe they just have bad math, but it–it’s prob–it’s probably like… they’re probably like… skimming from their own company right? Like that’s–that’s probably what that is? That’s–that’s–I mean, that’s–we can’t–we can’t trust them–we can’t… 

Anyways! I will speak to you… tomorro–today–in the office–okay, have a good night, um, morning–have a good–bye!

* * *

**8 - R to Iris - 1 Year**

Hey, Iris… It’s been, um, it’s been, uh, a year since our… dad… died and… since we’ve… spoken. Not that that’s, um, more important than our, you know, our-our father dying, just, um, it seems that they are just linked… together… and I, um… I thought it would be–I just wanted to acknowledge it with… someone who would understand. But I guess maybe… that’s not you either since… I don’t understand… you… anymore… or if I ever did…

‘Cause to me it just seems like when dad died you… did… too. 'Cause I lost both of you at the same time and… it… might as well… be true because… I mean… right? Like, you might… you might as well be–

I d-… I don’t want to be angry anymore. And-and I’m not angry anymore if–if… You know different… different people deal with loss… differently… and, um… I guess that just means I… You dealing with it in your way means that I have to deal with the double the loss in… my own way and I guess that includes leaving voicemails to someone who doesn’t care… So… 

Probably you’re not listening to this… I don’t even know where the fuck you are… I’m just–statistically you’re probably closer to dad’s grave than I am, so if you could–if you could put like some kind of fucking f-bouquet or whatever… Talk to his buried corpse… and the nice shiny rock that cost a lot to have his name on it–if-if you could do that, because I’m… I’m not there and I’m… Hell, maybe-maybe you’re not there either–I don’t know what I’m saying anymore I’m… 

Yeah, it’s been a year! It’s been a year, Iris! It has been. A. Year…  I don’t know, Iris, I don’t know what happened… to us… to…

I don’t know… okay… I-… this is me saying goodbye to you for… for–for real o-or, you know, closure or–something–or…

Goodbye, Iris.


	23. AU ficlet, 3/? (2018-11-12)

“We destroy that which threatens our existence,” the stranger says, after she pulls Zim and, belatedly, Kevin to their feet. She is far more reluctant in healing Kevin, or perhaps the curse had dug itself into him more thoroughly, the uprooting all the more hollowing for it, because he hardly speaks on their long trudge back to Doc Kaiza’s clinic.

“What does that have to do with–”

“But that’s so subjective, don’t you think, octant?” the stranger interrupts Zim, easily guiding them through the trees towards civilization, almost familiar with the forest trails, though he’s sure he’s never seen her in town before. “Our existence as in our lives or our lifestyles? Threatens as in physical danger or mental stress or even financial threat? All this subjectivity, and yet never do we interpret destroy as anything but kill.”

Zim doesn’t understand, stays nearly as quiet as Kevin whose arm is warm and pliant over his shoulders, footsteps stumbling in Zim’s own.

The stranger looks at him, at them–Zim and Kevin, stumbling and covered in dirt and leaves–with a smile on her face. “You nearly killed yourself today, octant. Over some normal human.”

At those words, Zim can feel irritation flare, his grip on Kevin tightening, protective. “Kevin’s not just some normal human, he’s my best friend! I had to save him. I had to!”

Her smile grows wider, “He has no magic. He’s as normal a human can get,” she says, “But I’m not criticizing you, octant. It’s good that you went so far to save him. It’s good that you found a way to purge the curse without killing your friend…”

His temper cools, though he still keeps his grip on Kevin’s arm steady.

“It’s good that my sister raised you away from the clan,” she concludes, before shrugging and walking ahead, trees giving way to the roads on the outskirts of town, ignoring the informational bomb she dropped behind her.

“Y-your sister?” Zim asks with barely concealed hope, rushing to catch up to her and dragging Kevin along with him.

The stranger–or, perhaps something, someone else–glances back at him before turning ahead once more. If there is emotion in her voice, he can’t hear it, but maybe there is something to be read in the line of her shoulders, her stance, her pace. “Yes,” the stranger says, a sigh and a pause, “Your mother.”


	24. Redux ficlet, Traditions Torn (2018-11-20)

There were an odd number of candidates at the trials.

Normally, this mattered not. Quantity of candidates were less important than quality, and only the best and brightest could join the Premier Witch Council.

But for this particular set of trials, the fact that there were an odd number of candidates was not just surprising but also worrying:

On the full moon after the Premier Gemini Witches died, trials were held to find a new pair of luminaries to replace them.

One candidate had come alone.

—

“I know what they think of me,” Candidate Chacone says during the final trial, “I know what they said.”

The eleven luminaries remain silent, observing. Judging.

“They think I’ve done something to her, a diabolical thing. Then mutilated myself for more power. An abomination of a Gemini witch.”

Still the luminaries say nothing.

“But she was the one that slammed a wall between us. She’s the one that left me alone, screaming!" 

Some of the younger luminaries at the ends flinch at her tone, but the Premier Taurus Witch at her place in the center merely holds up her hand, settles them.

"My magic wants desperately to harmonize and all I had were the shrieking echoes of myself.”

~

~

For seven hours and thirty one minutes, Luminary Chacone headed the largest, most successful coven in history.

If the knowledge had stayed within their secret half world of magic and marvels, then it would have been a triumph. 

As it is, Luminary Chacone’s actions have brought unwanted attention from the shadowy government organization known as SHIELD.

—

The magician doesn’t look like anything special, Maria thinks on the opposite side of the glass. Nothing like Loki–grand robes and staff and regal demeanor–but perhaps that had more to do with his alien heritage than his magic.

If Maria had passed by this magician on the street, she wouldn’t even turn around. The magician looks absolutely normal. Absolutely human.

The magician waits, patiently, silently, as she has done since agents escorted her here. No demands for explanations. No pleads to go back. No questions.

How alarming.

This should Coulson’s job. For all that SHIELD is still cleaning up the literal alien invasion, this feels like a peace time interview, or even a recruitment.

But Coulson is dead, and Fury can only trust Maria to do this, never mind that she’s a battle commander and not the deft touch of whatever Coulson was.

Enough.

Maria steels herself and enters, posture impeccable, and the magician reacts by blinking slow and sleepily at her.

“You did something,” Maria begins, a shaky start but not inaccurate, “During the invasion.”

The magician nods, open, “I protected those that I could.”

“More than that,” Maria responds, unable to find words for what she means to say.

SHIELD had experienced losses that day, of course, Coulson one of many. But only from the direct attack on the helicarrier. When the rift was open, monsters from across the universe raining chaos down, SHIELD stood firm. Agents stood back up from hits that should have taken them down, were able to do things that should have been beyond them. For several hours, SHIELD was undefeatable.

The magician huffed a soft but honestly amused sort of laugh, smile curling her mouth though her eyes continued to droop in exhaustion. “A matter of convenient coincidence,” she answers, though Maria hardly had a question formed. “My priority was to ensure that the building would be safe.” Again she laughs, or tries to, “I told everyone to believe that the shield would hold.”


End file.
